


Entry Level Contract

by provocative_envy



Series: Risk Adjustment [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Developing Relationship, F/M, Humor, Romance, Social Media
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-25 23:29:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17734718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocative_envy/pseuds/provocative_envy
Summary: NHL GIFs@nhlgifs – 6mYIKES: Cormac McLaggen leaves his crease, breaks his stick, drops his gloves, & attempts to maim a rookie with his bare hands [show video]





	Entry Level Contract

* * *

 

**NHL on NBC** @NHLonNBCSports – 7m

GOALIE FIGHT [show video]

 

**NHL GIFs** @nhlgifs – 6m

YIKES: Cormac McLaggen leaves his crease, breaks his stick, drops his gloves, & attempts to maim a rookie with his bare hands [show video]

 

**Deadspin** @deadspin – 6m

cormac mclaggen is really out there starting a line brawl in the year of our lord 2018 smh [show video]

 

**Barstool Sports** @barstoolsports – 5m

2 minutes for roughing: back-up goalie gets real mad, chokes out innocent bystander [show video]

 

**Yahoo Sports NHL** @YahooSportsNHL – 4m

Does this count as goaltender interference? [show video]

 

**FIRST ROUND EXIT SZN (23-25-9)** @gregargoyle – 3m

mclaggens about to stab someone with his skate blade holy fuck

 

**suspicious cannons fan** @inVINCEable – 2m

are they BOOING HIM????????????????

 

**Theodore Nott Jr.** @nottadore – 2m

THEY’RE THROWING JERSEYS THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE

 

**Mikey** @the_cornerstore – 1m

wait isn’t this a home game

 

**FIRST ROUND EXIT SZN (23-25-9)** @gregargoyle – 1m

mclaggens a fucking moron but yooooooooo that sucks

 

**suspicious cannons fan** @inVINCEable – 1m

that’s mad embarrassing

 

**Mikey** @the_cornerstore – 1m

he’s a mediocre goalie AND a mediocre fighter what’s even the point

 

**Theodore Nott Jr.** @nottadore – 1m

our grandchildren are going to ask all of us where we were when cormac mcfratbro tried to kill a guy in the middle of a game………this is art, this is history, this is a scene from a rejected will ferrell screenplay

 

**not a hockey player** @godof_war – 1m

lmaooooooooo

 

* * *

 

** INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT **

_Romilda Vane_

Intermission – Ice Girl Q&A – New York @ Montreal – January 31st, 2018

 

**So, Romilda. You’re brand new to the squad. How do you like it so far?**

> “Oh, it’s been so great, all the other girls have been so welcoming, and, you know, great city, great arena, great fans—it’s all been so, so great.”

**That’s—wow. That’s great. And the team? The players?**

> “What about them?”

**Have they been great, too? Come on, be honest.**

> “I haven’t met all of them yet, actually.”

**Really?**

> “But the guys I have met have been great, yeah. Friendly. Nice. Super sweet, even with, like, the language barriers. Swedish is adorable.”

**Who haven’t you met?**

> “Um, just—you know—I mean, it was bye week, and then the All-Star break, and then I think there were some suspensions—”

**I think there was just the one suspension.**

> “Yeah. Sure.”

**So, really, just the one player, then. Who you haven’t met.**

> “Gosh, I literally can’t even imagine why this is relevant! Ha ha! But, um, for real, the team’s been great to me.”

**Right, right, of course. So. Let’s get personal. You were an ice dancer, correct?**

> “Past tense, ouch.”

**Oh, sorry!**

> “Sure.”

**Do you still compete?**

> “Regularly, yeah! I was three-quarters of a style point away from qualifying for the Olympic team last year. Barely missed.”

**That’s great!**

> “So, so great.”

**And now, the question that I’m sure is on every guy’s mind—**

> “Well, not every guy.”

**What’s that?**

> “One of the players hasn’t even met me yet! Remember? We, like, just talked about it.”

**Oh, of—of course. Good catch! So . . . are you single, Romilda?**

> “Happily.”

**Happily—single?**

> “Is there another way to be single that I’m not aware of?

 

* * *

 

Cormac is pressing an ice pack to the cut above his left eye—throbbing, bleeding, partially swollen shut—when he hears the door to the training room squeak open.

“Hello?” A girl’s voice calls out, a lilting, vaguely sarcastic sing-song, like she’s in on a very private, potentially very mean joke she’s never going to deign to share the punchline of. “Is anyone still here?”

Cormac grunts. “Don’t turn on the—” There’s a brief humming buzz of electricity before the overhead lights switch on. “Lights. Fuck.”

“Oops,” the girl coos, and Cormac glances up from where he’s sitting hunched over a beige plastic trashcan, wincing at the pain that shoots through the front of his skull. “Oh, wait, shit, are you actually—” The lights go off again. “I didn’t realize you were actually . . . concussed. My bad.”

“I’m not.”

“No offense, but are you absolutely _sure_ about that?”

“It’s precautionary. Yeah. I was hit with a ninety mile-an-hour slapshot, my head just really fucking hurts.” Cormac sighs and kicks aside the trashcan, throwing the ice pack onto the nearby massage table. “Sorry, but—who are you? And how are you . . . here? Why are you here?”

The girl emits a quietly disparaging chirping noise, clucking her tongue, her footsteps light and easy as she moves closer; and then the room is flooded with the low-beam white-bright glow of a cell phone flashlight, and Cormac is turning to squint at her, his vision already adjusting, and it’s—

Honestly, it’s fucking worse than getting hit with a ninety mile-an-hour slapshot.

She’s young, short and curvy, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with bronze-brown skin and full, pouty, glossy red lips. She has on what looks like a shiny, long-sleeved sports bra, skinny Spandex straps crisscrossing her chest, offering teasing, tantalizing glimpses of her cleavage, as well as sheer black stockings, fuzzy purple leg warmers, and a pleated white miniskirt. A faded pink skate bag is slung over her shoulder, a team-issued Kestrels fleece tucked into the outer pocket, with an arena security badge on a sparkly turquoise lanyard wrapped snugly around the handles.

“Oh,” Cormac blurts out. “You’re, uh—you’re the new ice girl. Malfoy mentioned you.”

She wrinkles her nose. “ _Did_ he?”

“Not like that,” Cormac hurries to add, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, okay, Malfoy, like, _gets around_ , but he usually only bothers to be a creep in person, if that makes sense.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“ _Oh_ , yeah,” Cormac says, whistling lowly. “He’s not shy.”

The girl smirks and gives Cormac a leisurely once-over, her gaze dipping to the undone laces on the front of his pants, the sweat-soft Under Armour clinging to his lower abdomen, his forearms and his biceps and his scabbed-over, still-bruised knuckles. Lingering. Considering.

“What about you?” she asks innocently.

“What?”

“Are _you_ shy?”

Cormac’s mouth goes dry enough that he has to cough, twice, before he can answer. “Definitely not, no.”

Her smirk widens, and her eyelashes sweep over her cheeks as she ducks her chin, leveling him with a slow, syrupy stare that his shitty fucking douchebag caveman hindbrain instantly decides to interpret as _inviting_.  

“I’m Romilda,” she says, licking her lips, idly reaching up to tuck a loose strand of thick, wavy hair behind her ear, “and I’m not shy, either.”

 

* * *

 

(10:39 pm) **hey**

(10:52 pm) **you up**

(10:55 pm) _oh my god_

(10:55 pm) _“you up”_

(10:56 pm) **you know what i mean**

(10:59 pm) _“you up”_

(10:59 pm) **it’s a y/n question**

(11:01 pm) _“you up”_

(11:01 pm) **is that a no**

(11:03 pm) _“you up”_

(11:05 pm) **okay**

(11:05 pm) **fine**

(11:06 pm) **how are you romilda**

(11:07 pm) **how was your day**

(11:08 pm) **did you have fun taking over the team snapchat during the game**

(11:08 pm) **that i singlehandedly lost**

(11:09 pm) **like……**

(11:09 pm) **all on my own**

(11:10 pm) _“you up”_

(11:11 pm) **seriously**

(11:13 pm) **are you even going to respond**

(11:14 pm) **or are you just going to keep making fun of me**

(11:15 pm) _stop feeling sorry for yourself and maybe i’ll stop making fun of you_

(11:16 pm) **uhhh**

(11:17 pm) **it’s a fact that we lost**

(11:17 pm) **and that it was my fault**

(11:20 pm) _listen_

(11:20 pm) _winning isn’t about actually being good_

(11:20 pm) _winning is about refusing to believe you aren’t supposed to_

(11:20 pm) _obstinance >>>>>>> skill_

(11:25 pm) **wow**

(11:25 pm) **that’s some fortune cookie shit**

(11:26 pm) _“you up”_

(11:27 pm) **lol**

(11:31 pm) **well are you????**

 

* * *

 

Cormac is lying flat on his back on Romilda’s bed, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up over his head, hugging a white eyelet lace throw pillow to his chest, the background chatter of the _Real Housewives_ marathon that’s playing on TV practically lulling him to sleep.

Or, well, it _would_ be practically lulling him to sleep, if his attention wasn’t so firmly, inexplicably fixed on Romilda.

Romilda, who’s not even doing anything interesting, really, anything _fun,_ just perched on a stool in front of one of those dramatic lightbulb-framed princess vanity tables, critically eyeing her reflection as she methodically packs a gigantic multi-tiered makeup case. A frankly alarming number of brushes and tubes and gleaming metal instruments are laid out before her, and everything kind of smells like expensive flowers and the essential oils aisle at Whole Foods. A glittery, jet-beaded black figure skating costume is hanging from her closet door.

Cormac hugs the pillow tighter to his chest, his forehead creasing in a thoughtfully bewildered frown.

There’s an _intensity_ to Romilda that he doesn’t understand, that impresses him a little but intimidates him a lot.

It’s in the way she looks at herself in the mirror, like she _expects_ things, good things, significant things, not-disappointing things—it’s in the line of her posture, how she throws her shoulders back and keeps her chin raised, how she takes deep, centering, sports psychologist meditation breaths before smiling shrewdly, sharply, like a shark sniffing a swirling ripple of fresh blood in the water.  

Cormac has always known, to some extent, what he’s wanted.

Wanting hockey meant hard work and discipline and sacrifices that never felt much like sacrifices because he didn’t want anything _more_. Didn’t want anything better. And there’d been a blueprint for it, too, an accessible, attainable path to success that other people had already neatly defined and clearly labeled. He didn’t have to overthink it. He didn’t have to risk more than he cared to. He was what he was, and he _is_ what he _is_ , and that’s—fine. Okay. The gold star sticker charts got left behind in elementary school and he probably didn’t need to fucking remind himself of that as often as he did.

Romilda, though; she doesn’t just seem to know what she wants.

She seems to know how to _get_ what she wants.

“Hey,” Cormac hears himself say, with hardly any actual input from his useless underachieving pushover of a brain, “do you mind if I, like, come with you? Today? To your—thing? Your competition thing?”

Romilda pauses, glancing up at him from where she’s untangling the cord of a curling iron. “You want to come? Why?”

He shrugs, puffs his cheeks out, and then sits up, flinging the pillow onto a plush gray rug and pushing the hood of his sweatshirt back down, ruffling his hair as he goes. The stubble on his jaw is starting to itch.

“I think,” he muses, tongue curling over his teeth, “that you really underestimate how hot it is that you can do the splits standing up. On skates, even. Like . . . I’m a simple man, baby.”

She snorts and rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t say no.

 

* * *

 

**NHL on NBC** @NHLonNBCSports – 29m

HOLY KICK SAVE, BATMAN [show video]

 

**NHL GIFs** @nhlgifs – 24m

CONTENT WARNING: Just watching Cormac McLaggen’s diving, sprawling, physically impossible desperation save on this Marcus Flint wrister will make your entire body hurt [show video]

 

**Deadspin** @deadspin – 16m

“NO MEANS NO” – cormac mclaggen, probably

 

**Barstool Sports** @barstoolsports – 5m

cormac mclaggen is now just gaelic for “brick wall” i guess [show video]

 

**FIRST ROUND EXIT SZN (28-26-9)** @gregargoyle – 3m

i swear to god mclaggen hasn’t blinked in like 45 minutes wtf

 

**suspicious cannons fan** @inVINCEable – 2m

6’3” is suddenly looking a lot like 6’6” in that net

 

**Theodore Nott Jr.** @nottadore – 2m

lol mclaggen’s basically just nailing diggory’s coffin shut with that fucking poke check my lord

 

**Mikey** @the_cornerstore – 1m

HOW

 

**FIRST ROUND EXIT SZN (28-26-9)** @gregargoyle – 1m

WHAT THE ACTUAL SHIT

 

**suspicious cannons fan** @inVINCEable – 1m

guys………..hear me out but i think mclaggen might have a real future in this league

 

**Mikey** @the_cornerstore – 1m

it’s like he’s a magnet but the puck is also a magnet

 

**Theodore Nott Jr.** @nottadore – 1m

i respect how dialed in mclaggen looks tonight but grown men shouldn’t be able to bend their spines like that

 

* * *

 

Cormac is fumbling with the knot on his tie as he shoulders open the locker room door, his hair still damp from his postgame shower, the muscles in his legs still sore from his postgame warm-down, the excruciatingly soppy sound of Malfoy bickering hotly with one of the new call-ups gradually, blessedly, finally beginning to taper off.

Romilda is in the hallway, leaning against the cinderblock wall next to the blinking red EMERGENCY EXIT sign, wearing yoga pants and pink sequined UGGs and an absolutely massive Kestrels hoodie that Cormac thinks, faintly, must be _his_.

He stops in his tracks.

She’s holding a puck, scratched-up and game-used, outer edge covered in masking tape, and she’s studying it, a small, uncharacteristically genuine, uncharacteristically soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She looks proud, maybe, which isn’t really new, but also not even close to _smug_ , which absolutely is.

She hasn’t noticed him yet.

And he feels a little like he did in the moments immediately preceding his first and only concussion in juniors; nauseous, confused, off-balance, like the colors are too bright and the world is spinning too fast, like he’s overwhelmed and underprepared and just needs some alone time in the quiet room to breathe deep and listen to his gut and generally get his shit together.

He coughs into his fist, taking a couple of not quite casual steps forward.

“Hey there, handsome,” Romilda greets him, her expression rapidly clearing, her smile shifting into something slyer and smoother and more familiar, less important, as she tosses the puck from one hand to another. “Thought I might stay up a little late tonight.”

Cormac chuckles, letting his tie hang loose around his neck as he struggles to school his features into a configuration that isn’t so embarrassingly fond. So embarrassingly _earnest_. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” She tilts her head back to meet his eyes, the plump cushion of her bottom lip clutched between her teeth, and reaches up to gently press the puck against his chest. “Congratulations. By the way.”

He ignores the puck, drawing his hands up to her jaw, her chin, framing her mouth with his thumbs, watching, entranced, as she swallows, lashes fluttering, her gaze going dark and her breath audibly hitching.

“First career shutout,” he murmurs, leaning in to brush his nose against her cheek. “By the way.”

“It’s almost like you’re good.”

“It’s almost like I’ve always been good.”

Her lips twitch again, a small, sweet, split-second quirk that definitely shouldn’t be as obvious to him as it is, and then she arches up onto her toes, kissing him slowly, carefully, thoroughly, like she’s trying to communicate with him, trying to tell him—

“Prove it,” she whispers into his mouth, and he has to grin, has to bend down, slightly, to hook an arm around her thighs, scoop her up and up and up until she gives in and wraps her legs around his hips, stifling a laugh, her fingers bunched into his jacket, wrinkling the fabric of his suit.

The puck falls to the ground, bouncing between them.

 

* * *

 

**inVINCEable** : _[has shared a video]_

**inVINCEable** : 3/2/2018 DAL@MTL

**inVINCEable** : save of the fucking year

**gregargoyle** : wtf

**nottadore** : wow

**nottadore** : post to post behind that krum screen

**nottadore** : made it look easy too

**nottadore** : textbook positioning

**gregargoyle** : hey remember when mclaggen was bad

**gregargoyle** : ????????

**inVINCEable** : he still is

**nottadore** : nah

**nottadore** : i always just thought he was kind of lazy

**nottadore** : he was really good in junior but then fucking collapsed when he got sent down to the minors his first pro season

**nottadore** : it was probably a confidence thing

**nottadore** : that happens a lot during transitional years

**nottadore** : it’s pretty common

**gregargoyle** : lmao

**inVINCEable** : jfc

**inVINCEable** : dude come on

**nottadore** : what

**nottadore** : ?????

**inVINCEable** : harry potter isn’t trash because he lost his confidence in the minors

**inVINCEable** : he’s trash because he tore his acl into like seven different pieces and can barely skate

**gregargoyle** : r.i.p.

**gregargoyle** : lol

**inVINCEable** : comparing potter to mclaggen like……really????

**gregargoyle** : one is a giant underachieving draft bust and the other is somehow cormac mclaggen

**inVINCEable** : hey that’s highest drafted goalie in two decades cormac mclaggen

**gregargoyle** : lmao unreal

**nottadore** : _[has left the chat]_

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> [come join me in hell](http://www.provocative-envy.tumblr.com)


End file.
